


crossing over

by mhunter10



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 7x11, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Mexico, Mickey in Mexico, Nipple Play, Rimming, Sexual Content, damon saves the day, ian and damon bond, maybe some nipple play, some ass eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-08 04:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8829670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mhunter10/pseuds/mhunter10
Summary: It only takes Ian about five whole minutes to realize he's probably made the biggest mistake of his life, and boy has he made some mistakes.Cue a certain Mexican banger motherfucker he thought he'd never see again.





	1. Idiota

Ian's smile slowly falls as it begins to hit him. The feeling of relief that had washed over him at finally seeing another Milkovich get away, was suddenly sinking heavily into his stomach. He felt sick. The sun was too hot. The horizon was hazy with heat and it was doing things to his vision. He squinted his eyes and could still see the green station wagon as it took the only person that ever loved him more than themselves farther and farther away. Other cars began to block his view and panic rose in him like the tide on a beach.

Fuck. Fuck   fuck   fuck.

Not minutes before he had been so sure. He'd made up his mind. Talked himself through every possible pro and con all night, beating himself up for how long he'd let it drag on; how stupid he'd been to even give that sliver of hope. But it had once been his hope too. He hoped that things would work out, but as they kept driving and the more problems came up he quickly realized they never would. Not with them. It was impossible. And yet...there he was standing at the Mexican boarder feeling like his world was beginning to crash down around him.

Of all the stupid decisions and mistakes he's made in his life, this by far took the cake.

He was a fucking idiot. Fucking clueless, just like people always said about him.

Ian ran his hands through his hair. He clutched his chest, feeling it tighten with how fast his heart was beating. He literally couldn't breathe. He was already struggling to live without Mickey Milkovich in his life.

Mickey fucking Milkovich.

How he got so mixed up with a Milkovich, he'll never know, but he damn sure wished he still was right about now.

He frantically looked around, cars passing him by, sun still blaring down on him. He licked his lips and tasted lipstick.

Fuck.

He needed to do something. Now. Fast. How much further was Mickey getting away from him forever every moment he spent standing there?

How long could he go without Mickey now that he just might have seen him for the very last time?

Ian swallowed hard, trying to slow his breathing down enough so he could think clearly. He obviously hadn't been when he thought he was doing Mickey and himself a favor by not just getting in the damn car. Would it have fucking killed him? No. Did he now feel like he was slowly dying? Yes. Fuck yes. He blinked back tears, remembering he left the sunglasses Mickey had got him in the passenger seat.

More and more cars went by. Minutes passed and Ian was no closer to figuring out how to go after the only man he ever loved. He could keep going, hitch to California and cross into Tijuana from San Diego. He could risk his name being in some sort of government database in connection with a fugitive and just walk over the bridge. He watched a few people to get an idea of the process. It was a possibility. He would definitely take the risk now that he was feeling the very real consequences. How he was going to get home honestly hadn't crossed his mind. Not even when he was lying to himself that he wasn't like Mickey anymore. He'd never fucking been like Mickey, that was what made them work. Sure, he was a Gallagher, thriving and surviving on schemes and pure luck of the Irish it seemed, but Mickey had always been the shoot first, ask question maybe kind of guy. If there was no tricking or reasoning with an enemy, better they drop than him. Mickey was always fighting, even when Ian couldn't see that.

He saw it all now. And he thinks he saw it since the minute they'd locked eyes at the bleachers. He'd done so much and none of it was ever about him, not really though. It was always because of someone else and then he was an afterthought. Ian couldn't believe how awful he'd been. He shook his head, trying to clear it before he sent himself into another panic. He couldn't afford to spiral out of control now. Now that he didn't have Mickey to keep him in control.

And he truly didn't have Mickey now. Even if by some miracle he was able to catch up to him, would Mickey take him back after being tossed aside by him twice? He could beg and plead and confess until he was bluer than Mickey's shining eyes, but would it matter now? Should he even try? Maybe the best thing was to just let Mickey go. And maybe Mickey was right. He was a fucking pussy and didn't want to feel the same rejection he'd doled out to more than just Mickey. He didn't think he could handle the tables being turned. He really hadn't changed at all, only transformed.

He pulls out his phone and looks at it. No missed calls, no messages. One quick call and hasty lie had been enough for his family to leave him alone, just like before. Why was it always so easy for them to put him last? Maybe it was because that's where he placed himself all those years. He wasn't smart enough to help, he wasn't old enough to take charge, he wasn't young enough to mess up and get in trouble. He was always just Ian. Ian's fine. Ian's okay. Don't worry about Ian unless it directly affects me. He scoffed, shoving his phone back into his pocket. So what if he never went back? Would they care? Would they come after him? Would they just move on?

He had about forty bucks in his pocket. He doesn't regret giving Mickey all his money. Easy come, easy go. Gallaghers were never about money. He spotted a peso in the dirt and picked it up, holding it up to the light. He heard tires roll to a stop beside him and looked over. A blue Camero sat idling before the tinted window rolled down.

"Well, well, well...lookie what we got here," Damon grinned from the driver side, one hand fisting the wheel.

Ian stared blankly, not believing what he was seeing. He was so overwhelmed with everything that had just happened in the past half hour (had it already been almost an hour?) that he let out an incredulous chuckle. He looked left and right for no reason, the peso warm in his closed palm.

"How's it feel now, pendejo?" Damon says, staring out the front windshield and smoothing his mustache. He looks back at him and raises an eyebrow that could've only been unconsciously perfected by living in a cell with Mickey for so long.

Ian shakes his head, has to laugh a little. He senses that Damon doesn't seem that mad, considering his consolation prize. He sighs and looks down at his feet. "I couldn't do it."

Another eyebrow raise from Damon. He genuinely looks surprised. "After all that mierda de amante he said to you? He let you ride his ass like that and you couldn't do it, Estúpido?"

"It's not like that," Ian tries to defend himself, stepping closer to the car. He sounds fucking weak. Even he doesn't believe himself.

"Then what's it like, ay? Been listening to him talk about you nonstop, I was starting to think you was something, man. But I guess you just a little bitch," Damon sneers, clearly on the side of his clink buddy.

Ian doesn't say anything. He's not going to deny it.

"You love him?"

Ian looks up. "Of course, but I--"

"Do you fucking love him?"

Ian doesn't hesitate. "Yeah. I do. I love him."

"Then whatchu standing out here for, man?"

Ian's eyebrows shoot up, his heartbeat speeds up.

Damon grins and motions towards the door. "Get in the fucking car, Idiota."

Ian's face splits into a smile, as he throws his bag in the open window before getting in.

Damon pulls back onto the road and towards boarder patrol.

Ian's heart was beating so hard in his chest he though it would bust out of his chest.

He wasn't scared, though. Not when they pulled up, not when they were asked for their passports, not even when the dog sniffed too long at the side of his door. He wasn't afraid. He was alive. He was ready.

Ian was going to fight for Mickey.


	2. WWMD?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon and Ian realize they have to think differently if they want to catch up to Mickey in time. Meanwhile, Mickey finds himself alone in Mexico.

Mickey forced his eyes away from the rear view mirror and to the cars steadily moving in front of him. Once his heart had stopped pounding in his chest at how many fucking questions they asked, it went right back to the slow dull ache he wouldn’t admit had been there from the start of all this. Some part of him had known at every step, but something about looking up at the stars with a beer in hand and someone out of this world by your side can make you feel like anything is possible. It can even make you start to forget that literally nothing in your life has ever gone the way you wanted; the way you deserved. Fucking stars and love are bullshit, he concludes and adds freckles and happiness along with them. He looks one more time because he’s weak and he knows this turn will take Ian’s physical image away forever. He’s small and distant and looks like he could be celebrating.

Fuck you, Ian Gallagher.

Mickey is over the Mexican border by himself and maybe that’s how it was supposed to be all this time. What if he’d escaped and just fucking left Chicago and never looked back? He might be further along. Or he’d have fucking got caught first mistake he made. There was never a plan beyond getting free and that had included Ian, but now he had the freedom and no Ian and it almost felt like jail. He actually felt like he was dying a little bit. It was just the heat and this stupid wig and these fucking clothes. First thing he was doing was getting the fuck out of this getup, and getting a damn drink. Don’t tell Mickey Milkovich he doesn’t have a plan.

He’d had a lot of plans. Ones he’d been thinking of since they were playing happy family. One plan that had scared him to even think about he’d merely hinted at desperately, just to have it shot down like everything else in his future. He’d given up on thinking he’d ever be anything special because all he wanted…all he needed was someone special to make it all okay. Ian had made it all worth it, considering he was more times than not the direct cause of it all.

Mickey scoffed, itching at the synthetic hair and sweat on the back of his neck.

And the stupidest thing was he’d do it all again. God, it hurt so bad. So fucking bad. But hey, he could be fucking dead and if that wasn’t one of those silver linings everyone was always fooling themselves with, he didn’t know what was. So he keeps driving, inching further and further away from the burning bag of shit that is his past and getting closer to….something else.

Hopefully a fucking shower and some food.

///////

Ian looked at the clock on the radio and cursed. Every minute that went by, Mickey was getting further away. He could have turned anywhere, gone anywhere, be anywhere right now. Every moment was like a punch to the face. He closed his eyes and shook his head, remembering how he had reacted to Mickey simply trying to take care of him. What was with all the pushing and fighting? Why had they wasted so much time hitting and hurting, when they could’ve been…..just fucking talking and listening to each other?

His head was beginning to hurt. Damon singing along to Crazy Town’s Butterfly was beginning to grate on his nerves.

“Come my lady, you’re my pretty baby, I’ll make your legs shake, I’ll make you go crazy!”

“Could you shut up a second?” Ian is harsher than he means to be, jabbing the radio off.

Damon stared at him, eyebrow raised and making Ian think of Mickey even more and get madder. He’d brought his meds, but he’d been too ashamed to take them in front of Mickey. He’d tried so hard to get him to take them for his own good, and he’d been so warped by Monica and his own denial that he got rid of both of them. And then he’d turned around and done exactly that. He knows he needed to make the decision on his own once he came to terms with his diagnosis on his own time, but he hated that he hadn’t trusted Mickey to want the best for him. That was all Mickey had ever cared about; making him happy. Now Mickey was probably happy without him.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. He had so much to be sorry for, but he never said it enough if at all. Just how many people had the Gallaghers screwed over and never said sorry?

Damon shrugged, inching forward as they got deeper into the thick of city traffic. “I get it, man. I’d be mad at myself too if I let my girl go.”

Ian sighs, running his hand through his hair. The numbers change on the clock and they move forward slowly. His eyes search ahead for the green car despite knowing they’re an hour behind. Fuck.

Damon hits his arm gently. “Ay, man, if anybody knows Mickey, it’s you.”

“What, like what would Jesus do?” Ian lifted an eyebrow, trying to determine what guy was getting at. He’d been more trouble than he was worth at the beginning, but Ian was starting to see him differently now. Things might’ve gone different if he’d been there to negotiate with the other Jesus.

Damon laughed, nodding. “Yeah, but it’s Mickey instead.”

Ian gets it. He’s gotta think like Mickey. He’s hurting, probably still pissed though, and hasn’t eaten properly in at least two days. His own stomach growls as he thinks about it. They’d been preoccupied catching up and trying not to blow the whole thing. And now Ian had blown it, but maybe just maybe whatever Gallagher luck he had would help him again. All they needed was a lead.

“Any ideas, ese?” Damon asks.

Ian turned to him and smiled.

///////

“Ay, mamí, you lookin’ fine as hell. Mira esas piernas!” The man eyed Mickey up and down, licking his lips and puffing out his chest. He stepped closer and reached for his hip, but Mickey snatched up his wrist and squeezed hard.

“Oye puta!”

Mickey pulled the wig off his head and shoved it into his face. “Fucking think again, Paco.” He let his hand go and quickly stepped into the bar in case he’d already gotten himself noticed by being stupid. He cursed, scanning the place for the restrooms and heading straight there. Once inside, he locked himself in and was glad to see it was a single. He threw his bag down and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked tired and about ten years older. His hair was disheveled and matted down. His pits were staining through the dark fabric, and his feet were killing him. He looked at his eyes. Ian had done something to make them stand out more but also look softer. Something he picked up from his past he apparently didn’t remember. Nothing could ever stick to the Gallaghers for long.

He looked at his lips, touching them gently with his fingers and rubbing where Ian’s had been; his lips that hadn’t said goodbye but a last taunt because he hadn’t changed enough. He would always be a thug who couldn’t keep his mouth shut or do anything that wasn’t illegal in all fifty states. Just a Milkovich in the world alone.

Mickey scrubbed and wiped so hard to remove any trace of lipstick or Ian from them.

He changed back into the clothes he’d been wearing for days and trashed the dress and heels, earrings too. He fixed his hair and splashed water over his face and neck, before heading to the bar area. He’d ditched the car in a lot a block away, taking everything he had with him. The wad of cash he wasn’t stupid enough to get rid of was burning a whole at the bottom of his backpack. He knocked on the bar to get a bartender’s attention, suddenly aware he was in Mexico and needed other phrases than ones that would get him in trouble. He wracked his brain for some other stuff Damon might’ve mentioned.

“Um…fucking, un-uno cerveza and…like, you got any uh los tacos?” He raised an eyebrow and bit his lip, hoping that was sufficient enough. Maybe the guy understood something from that. He’d need to get a dictionary or some shit if he didn’t want to starve. The guy stared at him for a moment and Mickey’s heart started to race. Had this guy seen his face somewhere? Was he already fucked before he’d even gotten one beer? “Port favor?” He added, laying on the clueless backpacking American charm with a smile. The guy smiled back, shaking his head slightly.

“Pork or chicken?” He asked, accent thick as hell but English clear as day.

Mickey’s eyebrows inched up his forehead and he tongue the corner of his mouth before scoffing.

“Pork,” he answered. “Got anything stronger than beer?” The man nodded, pointing to a chalkboard advertising a big ass margarita with fruit hanging off the side and a fucking umbrella. Fuck it. When in Mexico, huh?

He held up two fingers. “Make it dos.”

“Pico de gaio?” the man asked, starting on his drinks.

Mickey shrugged, “Sure, whatever, man. Yeah. Extra cheese.”

More nodding. Apparently his vocabulary was limited to only words that would make dealing with tourists easier. This was confirmed when he sat the first large margarita down in front of Mickey and looked down at his arm resting on the bar top.

“I like…uh….this?” He touched Mickey’s wrist, referring to the cheap gold bracelet he’d somehow forgotten to take off.

Mickey pulled his arm away and reached for his drink with his other hand. He took several long gulps, immediately tasting a heavy hand of tequila that was much appreciated. He licked his lips and noticed the guy was still standing there watching him.

“Any time you wanna get those fucking tacos, man. Take your time, I’m not starving or anything.” Fuck. He was doing it again, making himself memorable. The guy stared blankly, half-smile on his face because he didn’t get any of that but tacos and maybe fucking. Mickey waved him off for good measure and thankfully he just nodded again and left.

Mickey downed the first drink while he waited, occasionally looking over his shoulder. The place was busy so he could get lost in here for a little while at least, nobody was paying much attention with soccer on the only television. All around him were people talking and talking and he didn’t understand a word. It was like having a house full of Russian prostitutes, only way more pleasant. Kinda hard to let something slip to someone who didn’t understand him. He really was free, if he thought of it that way. He wasn’t Mickey Milkovich to anyone. Not to anyone that mattered. He might even be okay with that.

He ate his tacos. They were warm and filled with melty cheese and seasoned tomatoes, juice from the meat dripped down his hands and he didn’t mind the spiciness or the lettuce. He thinks he moaned a couple times, judging by the way the guy was laughing at him. He said his name was Javier.

Mickey was buzzed by the time his lips hit the salted rim of his second drink. He’d probably feel like shit and have to shit in a few hours, but for a second he felt okay. He felt like he could do this. He felt like maybe all he needed was himself.

///////

“There!” Ian shouted, pointing to a lot to their right.

Damon swerved out of traffic and into it. Ian was out of the car before he’d pulled to a complete stop. He ran over to the green wagon and peered inside, heart pounding in his chest. Part of him thought Mickey would be in it, but he knew he’d ditched it. The little stuff he had was gone, even the money. Ian let out a breath he was holding.

“This the car?” Damon asked, looking inside then at Ian.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Ian felt like he couldn’t breathe properly. He whipped around left and right, eyes searching frantically. They were still behind and had no clue where to go next, but this was a start. Ian felt like laughing and screaming. There was a chance. There was hope, he just needed to think.

Mickey wouldn’t get another car. He’d want to get out of those clothes. He’d want to find somewhere he could lie low and blend in for a while, get his bearings and figure shit out, maybe get plastered enough to get a certain redhead out of his system.

He scratched at the back of his neck and looked up at Damon.

“Let’s walk,” he says, feeling something in his gut.

“You think he’s close?”

“He was wearing heels,” Ian says in answer, ignoring Damon’s confused look. “C’mon. This way,” he starts to move after grabbing his bag from the Camaro.

“Nah, man, hold up a second,” Damon catches him by the arm and nods the other direction. “Downhill. Easier on the ankles, ay?”

Ian takes a moment to absolutely admire the banger hitman in front of him.

“If you thinkin’ of kissing me right now, no soy tu novio.”

Ian laughed and rolled his eyes.

“Let’s go.”


	3. Happiness is a Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian is running on empty and losing hope fast until he gets a sign. Mickey finally gets his day in the sun, but it's bittersweet.

Mickey left the bar, a little tipsy and a little sick. His feet still hurt a bit, but he can deal. It’s still bright out, so he shields his eyes as he looks around. The guys from before are nowhere to be found, so he takes it as a win, although he fully considered jumping out the small bathroom window and into whatever the hell he would find in a back alley in Mexico. At any rate, he feels better than he did so he’ll continue to take his chances that no one else tries any shit. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he doesn’t really care right now. He spots a sign with a word on it he recognizes from Damon’s late-night rambling about the water and the sand. Mickey smiles a little, adjusts his backpack, and heads towards it weaving through the crowd. As he walks, he looks around at faces and buildings, people look back at him and either grin or turn away. Kids run in and out of the throng, yelling and laughing. For a split second his heart flutters for the little boy he left behind who wouldn’t remember him by the time the year was out. He keeps going, following Downhill where everyone seemed to be going. Cars honked, people shouted, a few stray dogs hung around sniffing for food. A wet nose on his fingers scares him, before he chuckles at his own paranoia. Too many run-in with police dogs and he doesn’t know how to act around a scraggly guy who’s just hungry. He wishes he had something to give him, but he’s moved on before he really even thinks about it. His eyes look at the ground as he passes an old frail man holding out a cup full of change. It reminds him of the South Side and his heart starts to ache again before he sees the first glimpse of blue on the horizon. He picks up his pace, shaking off those feelings.

  
After stopping into what he called a Mexican 7-11 for a few things, it’s a short walk over a boardwalk and then Mickey’s boots hit sand. He immediately smiles, looking out at the bluest water he’s ever seen and it goes on for miles and miles until it hurts his eyes to look that far. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with ocean air and all the other smells he was slowly getting accustomed to. The beach is packed with people, some working and some relaxing and some doing both. There are food vendors and shops along the boardwalk, but other entrepreneurs are roaming between towels selling from their open briefcases and boxes. Mickey scopes out a spot and makes for it before it gets snatched up. He plunks down and yanks his shoes and socks off, eager to feel the warm grains between his toes. He sighs, letting his eyes close as he takes it all in. He inhales, exhales, inhales again. He can’t believe he’s here. He can’t believe he made it. All the time he spent imagining doing this, and now it was finally happening. Only one thing was different from his vision.

  
Mickey opened his eyes to find a boy staring at him. When their eyes met he smiled and waved, running over to him. He starts speaking excitedly, showing Mickey a small box of trinkets he pulls out one by one. He holds them up close and smiles proudly. They’re small animals made from clay, Mickey guesses, and painted with bright colors. Mickey also guesses the boy made them himself. He looks about eight or nine. He kind of reminds him of Carl. He shakes his head to bring him back to here and now. The boy is now asking him for money for a sea turtle. Mickey laughs, knowing this game. He’s seen enough young kids running around Chicago doing whatever for a couple bucks. Hell, he was one of them once upon a time, when it was sort of fun. Then it became a job, became his life. Stealing one of those squeegee things from a gas station and cleaning people’s windshields at intersections. Then his dad graduated him to pushing little bags of what he thought was sugar. He remembers his first high. It fucking scared him. He hopes this kid stays selling these ugly things. He buys two, a parrot and sea turtle now stuffed in his bag. He can’t help but keep his eyes on the boy as he works out of habit, but he loses him eventually.

  
Mickey takes his shirt off and rolls his pants up. No need for a swimsuit, but he plans to get his feet in the water to see if Damon was lying about how warm the water really is. He knows he shouldn’t leave his shit, but he figures he’s not going far. The sand is fucking hot and he curses all the way to the perpetually damp area getting slapped by waves every minute. And Damon was lying. It feels even more amazing than he described. His pale skin is baking even under all the sunscreen he stocked up on, but the water feels cool and soothing on his calves. There’s a slight breeze through the palm trees and seagulls are squawking overhead. This is his life now. He starts to feel something in his chest and he gets scared that it’s bad, but he realizes he feels okay. Happy? Not totally. Not after everything, not yet anyway. But he’s okay and he can do this.

  
He’s kicking his feet, splashing when a ball lands by him with a splat. Mickey looks up and sees the boy from before running over with a girl this time. She looks Molly’s age with darker skin and long brown hair. He’s speaking again to Mickey like he really believes Mickey understands, although he does a lot of pointing which makes Mickey feel a bit better. This time he introduces himself as Mainor and the little girl as Yancy. And they want to play with Mickey because they’re all done with their job for the day and they are kids. Mickey laughs because of course, with about 800 other kids around, the guy with knuckle tattoos that is whiter than the shells is a good choice. But he agrees, surprisingly, tossing them the ball. They play catch for a while, diving into the water with abandon. Mickey doesn’t even realize how far he is in the water until the waves are hitting his stomach. He starts to panic a little, but he sees these kids struggling but having fun. He wonders if there really are children who aren’t afraid all the time like he was. He takes their lead, starting up a new game of ducking under the waves as they break and riding them back to the beach. And Mickey is laughing. He’s not swimming, that’s for sure, but he feels free.

///////

Ian can hear Damon complaining behind him, as he moves onto the next bar in a line of twenty they’ve checked. He comes to a small bar and looks around. There’s a few guys hanging around, shoving and laughing loudly. He can hear a game on inside and thinks how much Mickey hates sports. But Damon comes up and wants to see who’s playing, what the score is. He reminds Ian that they haven’t eaten in hours, and Ian hates how fast he gives in. Every second they waste, Mickey could be in another car heading deeper into Mexico where they can’t catch him; a new fear that had struck him somewhere between the ninth and tenth places. So he follows Damon inside and up to the bar, exhausted and more than a bit discouraged. Damon pats his back and orders two beers from the bartender with a nice smile. Ian sips his Corona and lime, but it doesn’t taste right. The chips and salsa Javier gives them don’t taste good either. Nothing is right without Mickey.

  
He gets up, suddenly feeling sick. He finds the bathroom just in time and is happy he’s alone as he retches into the toilet. Only water comes up the first time, then he’s left just dry heaving because now his body is rejecting the idea that he may have lost his love forever. He wipes his teary eyes and slumps back against the wall, breathing hard. He let’s himself cry for a bit, but not long. He flushes away his regret and gets up. He washes his mouth out and looks at himself in the mirror. He looks tired and sad and defeated. He just wants to lie down and sleep at this point, and not think about how much his life is screwed up. He thinks of his home miles away where they’re not thinking of him. He thinks of Trevor and his messages he deleted. Maybe if he just went home and told the truth, he would take him back without too much preaching and minimal guilt-tripping, however unintentional. Maybe he could suck it up and make it work since there wasn’t really anything wrong with their relationship…but there wasn’t necessarily anything right about it. He tried in vain to think of a single thing he missed about Trevor, but all he could imagine was all the posters. He thinks he misses his job, but he wonders whose face he’d be watching as the light leaves their eyes. This was where he was supposed to be, only he wasn’t with who he was supposed to be with. Damon has been a tremendous help, becoming a fast friend. Ian feels bad knowing he’s pulling him away from what he was here for, but he keeps going so Ian keeps going.

  
Ian washes his hands and grabs some paper towels. As he goes to trash them, he sees something gold on the floor. His eyes go wide when he picks it up to look at it. It’s a gaudy, fake gold earring. The same earring that had been dangling from Mickey’s ear as he kissed him for the last time. His heart swelled with renewed hope. Mickey had been here. Ian didn’t know how long ago, but it didn’t matter. They were back on the trail. Ian still had a chance.

  
When he got back to Damon, he looked excited to see him as well. While Ian had been gone, Damon had asked the bartender if he’d seen Mickey, describing him without giving his name; a smart move. Javier is saying something Ian doesn’t understand, but then he cuffs his wrist. A bracelet. Ian almost screams. He thanks the bartender and pays for the drinks, practically dragging Damon out of the bar. They’re back on the sidewalk, regrouping. The sun is going down now, sinking downhill and turning the sky pretty colors. There’s people around and streetlights coming on. Ian looks around frantically for another sign, spotting a matted-looking dog sitting by a gutter. Mickey hasn’t had the best luck with dogs, but that doesn’t help. He sees a neon sign for a convenience store and is taken back to his early days working with the Karib’s. He pulls Damon that way, feeling his heart speed up even more. The owner tells Damon he remembers a pale man who was quiet and kept his head down. Ian smiles to himself, knowing Mickey would take a page from his book. Maybe there was a tiny chance he would take him back. They leave and Damon points to another sign. La Playa. They run.

///////

Mickey is sitting in the sand, watching the sunset. It’s beautiful and the water looks dazzling. He’s tired and a little burnt. His small friends have long gone home and he thinks he sort of misses his family, whatever he said before. Maybe they weren’t there all the time, but they were there. He wasn’t perfect either in the reliable brother department, especially where Mandy was concerned. Ian had saved her more times than he had. He wondered where she was now, but had the feeling she was okay. He could probably say the same for Ian. He was probably halfway home by now, back to reality and stability. The fairytale ending Mickey had wanted for them far from his mind in favor of…whatever Ian Gallagher wanted for himself these days. Mickey was afraid he didn’t know anymore. He thought he had that last night, but now he felt so wrong. His eyes burned with tears. The beach was empty and he was alone, as the sky grew dark. He hadn’t even thought about where he would live, let alone stay for the night. The tears slip down his face and he closes his eyes shut, palming them away. He chokes, he’s so upset. It’s all caught up to him and what if this never goes away? The warm water, the sand, the drinks, laughing, what if it all just keeps coming back to the moment Ian decided he couldn’t get in the car?

  
Mickey looks down at his hands, the bracelet still on his wrist, and his vision blurs with how much his heart hurts.

  
A shadow blocks the remaining light and he looks up.

  
///////

By the time Ian reaches the beach, it’s almost dark. He’s out of breath and disheveled, but he doesn’t care. His boots are heavy in the sand but he keeps going, moving towards a lone figure sitting in the fading light. As he gets closer, he knows without a doubt in his mind, but he’s still scared shitless. The first time he’s ever sacrificed and fought, and it could all come crashing down in seconds. He’d deserve it, but he had to try.

  
Ian slowed to a walk, coming around to approach from the front. He spares a glance at the amazing scene, but he only has eyes for the one he knew he couldn’t ever go without again.

  
“Mickey.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, it doesn't end here apparently. Just one more chapter and maybe an epilogue to wrap it all up. Afterall, I did promise @Lanjev sex on the beach.....
> 
> A lot of the elements of this story come from my life working in a restaurant and my first trip to Mexico this past summer. It was a terrible trip for other reasons, but I remember how much fun I had for a while on the beach. A little girl did start playing with me after selling some things on the beach for most of the day. I can't swim and she didn't know English but we had so much fun, I didn't even feel scared. I always envy little kids their...fearlessness. Mainor is a young boy who worked at my old job, and a total player despite not knowing much English. Yancy is another girl I worked with younger than me but we became friends fast. Anyway, thanks to everyone who's commented and stuck around.


	4. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Ian has found Mickey and nothing else matters except the very real, very scary idea that this could be the end...for real this time. But at least Ian could say he fought, right?

Mickey doesn't speak. He doesn't even breathe until his brain starts to panic, or maybe it's him that starts to panic. His heart kicks back in at an irregular speed and the air he gasps into his lungs chokes him, but he's frozen. He wasn't expecting this. Didn't expect this, not by  along shot. He knows he didn't learn much in school, but he knows if something keeps happening the same way every time, it's a safe bet to think it'll continue like that. But instead of gravity pulling an object to the earth, it's been Ian dropping his heart over and over without fail. The only difference is he never fucking learned to stop handing it to him. The science didn't work. He'd been going on pure faith...love, for God's sake, but it hadn't been enough. And now, here was the serial-dropper in front of him, right when he was finally getting the lesson through his head. He could almost feel the cracks in his heart opening up again; the seal he'd been working on since his lips tasted lime and his toes touched sand had apparently only been a flimsy bandage. Of course Mickey had never been good at patching himself up, leaving his wounds to fester and remind him why they were there before healing in whatever fashion was sure to leave a scar. Mickey was full of deep, lasting scars that never bothered him before he started getting them from Ian Gallagher. First they were little, then they got so big he had trouble trying to hold onto the boy and himself, so he chose to let himself fall apart.

He blinks. This isn't real. He's drunk. It's been a long day. He's not thinking right. The heat has gotten to him. The tacos were bad, there's something in the water here, he fucking drowned and died while finally having fun as a Milkovich. Literally any explanation makes more sense than Ian being there, and yet he is and he's not going away no matter how hard Mickey rubs his salty eyes.

Mickey swallows, his mouth tastes just like the sand he's sitting on. He wants to go jump in the ocean rather than deal with whatever is about to happen here because he wants no part of this. he's done. He has to be, it's the only way. As much as he resents this change in events, he almost laughs that he's surprised Ian has thrown yet another wrench his way, he is glad the fucker has finally come running to him.

"How's it feel?" he asks before he even realizes he's no longer shaken up. He keeps his eyes on the last of the light over the water, though. He digs his toes deeper into the sand, feeling how much it's already cooled down from the blazing day. He wishes he had a cigarette, but he's gone this long and actually feels fine without it. Maybe that was something else he was ready to let go of for good.

He doesn't have to explain what he means. He can tell by the way Ian's stance shifts above him. It almost makes him sad for what he's throwing away; unspoken understanding and wordless connection. But he got that here on the beach with those kids, and maybe there are other ways to make relationships...different ones...good ones.

The moon rises and sheds so much light on them that they can't ignore it or each other.

Ian looks down at his feet then to Mickey's, following up his legs to where his arms hug his knees. When he lands on his face he's surprised to see blue eyes looking back at him. The silence is killing him. He wants to jump right in, start talking and never stop until he's said everything he needs to. He's been thinking about it, in the back of his mind because he was never certain they would ever find Mickey, but he'd let a part of his mind believe enough to come up with the first words he would say. But now that he's here and it's happening, the words stick in his chest. They sound stupid in his head, trite and unworthy. They wouldn't work. They would do, they weren't right. He's scrambling. He needs more time. He knows Mickey doesn't expect him to answer what he just asked of him. Of course it feels terrible. It sucks, to be the one running to something he once thought was so sure. But he'd done it, right? He was here, right? He pushed past the burning in his lungs and worked hard, just like back in his ROTC days. And he is just now realizing that once in a million times wasn't enough. The odds were stacked against him. There was so much overwhelming evidence, he knows this is the moment he pleads guilty and accepts his sentence. Mickey is now plaintiff, judge and jury here. The tables have turned. It's no longer Ian's court.

"Can we walk?" he asks gently, knowing he's dealing with a hurt Mickey now. He needs a recess to regroup his hopeless case. He is guilty. No doubt about it, but he wants to get his closing statement right. For Mickey's sake, more than his. He remembers the last two times he thought he was doing something for Mickey's sake, when really he'd always been a selfish prick. And maybe he's doing it again now, asking for Mickey to listen to him one more time when he's run out of times, just so he can go home and know he tried. As if that would make any of this better, knowing his last attempt was too late and more than a dollar short. No amount of money from his account would patch this, not that he had much left. He truly only had himself to give Mickey, and now that might not be worth what it was before.

Ian holds his hand out, eyes locking with Mickeys.

Mickey looks at it and immediately feels the weighty pull of familiarity and comfort. He looks back at the water, the lapping waves to bring him back down to sanity. He could take it, though, right? He's made up his mind, so what does it matter if he takes one last thing for himself? The big, soft, heat of Ian's hand could be his take-away, even though he's owed more. Was it right to think of it like that? Like he'd been keeping score this whole time, when really he was just as unprepared? Or, he could ignore it, ignore Ian and watch him walk away again knowing it was the final time? He's proud he considers that for a half a second, before reaching up to grasp the hand firmly. There really hadn't been another option.

Ian pulls Mickey up, letting out the breath he'd been holding.

When Mickey turns to grab his stuff, he sees Damon pacing the boardwalk. He stops, nods in their direction, as he lights up a cigarette. Mickey didn't think he'd see the guy again, but he's kind of glad he's still a part of all of this. Damon had been rooting for them since Mickey told him, so he's not surprised he's had a hand in Ian leading him off down a beach at night in Mexico. He hopes he still has a friend after whatever happens.

They walk for a while before Ian clears his throat, fingers still loosely clasped around Mickey's. Before that the only sound around them was the water spraying and crashing, and the wind rustling the palms. In the distance they could maybe hear a street band playing, but they were far away from it now. There wasn't as much trash in the sand, but there was more natural debris washing up. The shells shimmered, but the light was decreasing the further they went. There were more rocks and dunes, tall grass, and they could see cliffs ahead of them that look black in the night. They were truly alone out there. It could have been a beach anywhere in the world, their own little private spot to...murder each other one last time. Cut off and secluded, there would be no one to tell them what or who to fight for, or force them together...not that they ever had a problem with that. They were magnets, he and Ian. Even when apart they managed to squeeze and push their way back to each other, even when they tried to stay away. Some thing would never change.

All the sound slips away when Ian speaks, leaving them in a quiet bubble.

"I know this isn't fair." Ian swallows the dryness in his mouth, feels Mickey's hand twitch in his. "And whatever you want, that's what I want, doesn't matter what it is. But I...I..." Ian sighs. He stops them. Why is he still controlling this? He doesn't deserve any of it. "I don't deserve you," he says more to himself, because it's just now hit him. All the times he'd acted like Mickey owed him something, when he'd been the one with the crowbar. He was always ready to fight for what he thought they should fight for, not even thinking about Mickey. But Mickey had always been thinking of him, even from the start. Pushing him away as a warning not to get mixed up with him because he would never be good for anything but a fuck and fucking up his life. And maybe somewhere in there he was trying not to fucking die by his own dad's hand, but even when that seemed like a real possibility Mickey had jumped in to save him. So no, Mickey didn't owe him anything. If anything, he was the one overdue. It was about time he started acting like he deserved Mickey.

"You're better than me," he concludes, "...always have been." He laughs because it's so obvious to him now that they're so far away from all of it.

"Finally got your head out of your ass, huh?" Mickey finally says. Just for a few seconds it feels like them. Their eyes meet and he scratches at his face, tongues the corner of his mouth. "You drag me out here to tell me something I already fucking know?"

Ian looks away, let's go of Mickey's hand. He sees a flash in his eyes like maybe he wasn't ready for the contact to end. He goes for it again, but Mickey crosses his arms. He thought he'd garnered some more time, but it's slipping away quickly. He can see Mickey already drawing the line between them and distancing himself, moving to lean against the rocks blocking them from view. He had no idea where the hell they were. There could be wild animals watching, waiting to pounce, but nothing would hurt more than Mickey telling him goodbye with the finality of death. But he goes after him again. He can't let him get away before he's said what he needs to say.

"Mick, I'm sorry."

"Said that before."

"And I meant it. I still do. I'm sorry. So sorry."

Mickey looks away.

"I know all I had to do was get in that car. You don't think I really wanted to get in that car with you?"

Mickey remains silent, but gives Ian a look.

Ian sighs, turning to the water. He looks out, running his hands through his hair. He takes a few breaths, takes it all in. A small cloud rolls over the moon. He sniffs, feeling the tears. He turns back to Mickey, who's been watching him.

"Mickey, I didn't see it before. I didn't know, but...but I do now and I, I just..." he gasps out a sob, breath hitching and wet. "I love you. I love you and I'm...I'm so in love with you. And I'm an idiot, I know, I am. I'm abusive, and manipulative, and self-centered and...I..God, I hit you! And those things I said, I didn't--I just...but there's--"

"Ian, hold on--"

"There's no excuse, I know, I know. I'm so sorry. And Yevgeny! Fuck!" Ian turns away again, distraught. His legs lead him so close to the water that his pants get soaked. It's cold and it's a shock, but he deserves it.

"Ian!" Mickey runs after him, suddenly afraid for him. He doesn't remember seeing him take any pills this whole time, but he was stable right? This couldn't be that again. It can't be. Mickey doesn't want it to be because he hates that all this could no be the Ian he knows. He pulls him back, stumbling a little and getting wet himself, until they are against the rocks. They dig into his back. He turns Ian around and holds his face in his hands, looking at his pupils. They're wide but go back to normal when they focus on him. They're so close, the heat from their bodies makes them shiver after the cold water. 

Without warning, Ian surges forward and kisses him. It's deep and desperate and Mickey is taken in by it. That last kiss wasn't enough, it hadn't been enough. He thought this would be easy, but the press of Ian's lips was making it difficult to remember all the bad. They always had. Kissing Ian was always good. The never screwed that up. It feels so good, but he remembers the latest drop of his heart at the border. He pushes him away, but only to arms length.

"Ian, stop. It's...it's okay," he pants.

Ian shakes his head. "It's not. No, no! It's not okay. None of it was okay...me leaving--" he tries to list all his transgressions, but all of them are just that, just him leaving time and time again. "I always fucking left, but I don't want to leave anymore, Mickey. I don't want to leave you anymore, I can't. I can't, I need you. All I do is run away, but I should've been running to you, with you, for you, Mickey. I see it now. I get it."

Ian goes in again, capturing Mickey's mouth with his, hands curling around his waist and pulling him close. He feels Mickey sink into him, melt into the kiss and sigh like he's giving into it. He feels so good. He doesn't want to let him go, he can't. He pokes his tongue at his lips, asking for entrance. Mickey starts to open up, but makes a pained noise, before breaking away. He pushes him back and makes more space between them.

Ian stares at him, knowing he's fucked it all up. He knew what he was walking into, but it's all so overwhelming. Mickey is so real and there and he'd thought he'd lost him forever. Now he surely had.

"It's too late," he says so quietly, pain on his face. He's shivering again without Mickey near him.

Mickey's a little scared, a little frustrated. He wants to kiss Ian and yell at him for everything, for pulling this on him right now when he was trying to keep his cool. He could never keep his cool around Ian, though, not even to save his own life. It's not that he doesn't agree with what Ian is saying, but there's been plenty of times he's done things. He's just as guilty, but he doesn't want to think of it that way. It's all true. Neither of them were perfect people before they started and they definitely weren't when they were together. They'll always be themselves, but it was being with Ian that made Mickey want to be better, become better for Ian because he had to. They're both young, stupid, been through so much in their lives that it's a miracle they're even here. This whole thing has been an absolute dream. Mickey has felt like he's living in a bad television show all his life, but the good parts came when Ian entered the scene. Ian was late to the gig, and it had hurt like a bitch and a half, but he was here now. He walks back over to him, cupping the back of his neck, fingers automatically stretching into red hair. His other hand rests on his cheek, moving his thumb back and forth.

"It's not too late, Ian. It's not, okay?"

Ian dropped his head, tears spilling to the sand. His hands came up and wrapped around Mickey's wrists, the bracelet staring back at him. "But it is, Mick. You don't want me anymore. I'm no good for you. This here, the beach, the ocean, freedom...."

Ian looks up, fights the urge to move closer.

Mickey shakes his head, "Ian, no. No, I...that's not--"

"I won't blame you. I won't. I don't. Just...I need you to tell me."

"Tell you what?"

Ian shrugs, "Tell me off. Tell me you fucked that bartender..."

"Ian, what the fuck? What are you--"

"Tell me you don't want me! Tell me, please! Please! I messed up. I should've got in the car, I should've taken my meds when you tried, I should've, I should've, I should've! Just tell me you don't need me anymore and you'll never see me again."

"Shut the fuck up, would you? Alright? Listen, look at me, Ian," he waits til Ian meets his eyes. "Look, I get it, okay? I been where you're at, if you don't remember, so tough shit. And you're right, you've should've done a lot of shit you didn't and shouldn't have done some of the stuff you did. If I got a bullet for every time you fucked me over with more than your dick, well, I got enough bullets cause of you already. I shouldn't want your ass back. I should've got that guy's number, had some fun, fucking moved on. But it ain't easy, Ian...being with you. Even before the bipolar. But Ian, for some stupid ass reason, I do want you. I tried to live without you, but it feels worse. Feels like I could hold myself together a million ways, but you're like crazy glue or something, man. Fuck..." Mickey breathes, not sure where all of that came from. It's all true of course. He hates Ian. He should, but he doesn't...even now. He thought he'd decided, but he doesn't know what that was now that he's here. And most of it is because he didn't have much time to think on it properly. Who knows what he'd be saying if this meeting had happened two days later or months later. But somehow he imagines...no, he knows his answer would be the same.

Ian doesn't speak, afraid to ruin what he thinks Mickey is saying. His heart is pounding, but he listens. For once he hears what Mickey is saying and understands. He knows it isn't anything he's said or how many times he's apologized, because Mickey has loved him before he got his act together and it sounds like he still does. Maybe it's the heavy moment talking for him, but it doesn't seem like it; the way he's looking at him. He's finally open. He's finally telling Ian what's what and it's all him.

"I'm not saying I'm done but, Ian, how can I trust you, huh? The fuck am I supposed to do here?" Mickey questions, because he really doesn't know. So many things are running through his mind that he can't pin down anything. He can't just let it all slide. He won't, he's done doing that. So what now? Does he put Ian through the same hoops he put him through, until Ian starts to resent him? Does he keep the bitterness inside to make it easier on him? He thinks back to what he would've done if Ian had wised up long before all this shit went down. He probably would have clocked him, honestly. He hates that that would've been okay for them. He doesn't want to do that shit ever again. He knows Ian is looking for some kind of punishment, something to let him know that he's on thin ice; one false move and he's gone from Mickey's life permanently. But he doesn't want to start there either. The answer is there's nothing he can do but let whatever is going to happen happen, but at least they can be on the same page. So he asks again, pulling Ian to him until their foreheads touch.

"Hm? What do I do?" he whispers between them, breath ghosting over Ian's face. "What's the plans?" Their lips are so close, he practically feeds Ian the question.

Ian presses their mouths together tentatively, not wanting to feel Mickey push him away again. He's knows he's in the dog house big time, but if Mickey is including him in the next steps, he thinks it's a good sign of where things are headed for them. "Well," he says, barely separating them, "...was thinking some...nipple pinching, maybe some ass eating." He tweaks Mickey's nipple through his shirt then squeezes his ass, respectively.

Mickey's head fall back in a loud laugh that echoes on the wind and bounces between the rocks. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Ian smiles, kissing him again a little harder.

"That's a good place to start," Mickey says between kisses, letting Ian back him against the rocks. They kiss, not wanting to stop now that they've started again. But he laces a hand on Ian's chest to stop him before they go further, his facing turning serious. Ian looks scared for a moment, so Mickey gives him a quick peck to reassure him. "But what about home, huh? Your family? Your job? How can I be sure an hour from now you're not going to decide that boyfriend ain't the better choice?"

Ian looks away, he can't take Mickey's gaze...his words. Even though, again, he understands why Mickey has to ask. He doesn't have a good track record. The slate isn't clear. It'll never be clean. But Mickey isn't asking for that. No, he's asking for Ian to give him what he's always wanted. Mickey wants him to pick him, to choose him and only him. And he can do that. He can feel it. He's ready. He nods so Mickey knows he gets it.

"Mickey, I won't promise you there isn't some shit I'll have to deal with because of the choices I've made. The only thing I can do is tell you that I love you and want only you. And I'll want you in an hour, two hours, tomorrow, the day after that and the one after that. Mickey, I...I won't ever stop wanting you, and I don't want to. You're everything to me. If you decide you don't want me, that's fine, but I hope it's a long time from now. I want you forever, Mickey."

Mickey is stunned. He doesn't know what he was expecting, wasn't sure what he was asking for. He would've taken anything, he thinks, but what Ian has given him is all he's ever wanted. He almost doesn't know what to do with it, now he's finally got it. It's terrifying. He can't breathe.

"Mick?" Ian moves his hands to his face and looks at him. "Say something," he laughs nervously.

Mickey swallows, licks his lips. "Did you just ask me to marry you?" he grins.

Ian snorts and rolls his eyes, but deep down he thinks he kind of did. Maybe not right now, but someday. He can see that, he can see what Mickey saw; remembers his dreams on sleepless nights when all he wanted was a future with the boy standing in front of him.

They look at each other, letting that idea sit between them, as if they're afraid to jinx it from how serious they actually are.

Mickey's leans in and Ian meets him there like always. They move fast after that, gripping and pulling and groping, pulling each other so tight nothing could ever get between them again. It's not desperate or needy, but it's got just enough passion and fire to show they want it, that they mean it to be the beginning of something new. Ian pushes away to lift Mickey's shirt. He dives right in licking and sucking at his chest. He's obviously sunburned a bit, so he's careful but he wants it so bad. He hasn't seen the tattoo since that first time, wondering how he missed Mickey keeping his shirt on since the docks. It looks better, but it's still wrong and brings up bad feelings, but he kisses it anyway because it needs new meaning now. He moves down and takes Mickey's right nipple into his mouth, he sucks gently on it before moving to the left one. He nibbles it a bit with his teeth and Mickey jolts against him, cursing. He moves up and kisses him hard, using both hands to pinch and roll the nubs. He takes Mickey's shirt off all the way, feeling his smooth skin and the muscles. His hands find their way into the back of his pants and boxers, squeezing his ass.

"Fuck, Ian," Mickey pants. He kisses him harder, squishing their faces together so he can push his tongue deeper. Ian shudders, hips starting to move. He feels a dry finger at his hole and moans. "Please," he says.

"I got you. I'm not leaving. Gonna take care of you...so good," Ian breathes hard. He hastily tugs at Mickey's pants, opening them roughly. "Take these off." He moves away further between the rocks, as if anyone would find them out here, and shrugs off his jacket. He lays it down and is glad Mickey is right there with him without him explaining. He gets to keep that now and he's never letting go. "How do you want it?" It's Mickey's choice. He'll do whatever Mickey asks of him. He wants all of him. Right now.

Mickey is completely naked, standing before Ian. He grabs him and kisses him. "I love you. I'm in love with you too." He gets down on his hands and knees. Maybe he wants to make Ian work to get him face to face, at least at first. "Ian," he pleads when the boy takes too long getting his own clothes off and laying them under his knees.

Ian doesn't waste any time. He licks a long stripe from Mickey's balls to the top of his crack and feels the reaction more than hears it. It's salty from the ocean, and he imagines Mickey in the warm water. He keeps going, moving his tongue up and down and all around until more than his hole is wet. It glistens and winks at him in the moonlight, begging for him, so he slips in a finger and keeps licking around it. He removes it and sucks the rim until it relaxes enough to thrust in another finger.

"Oh my God, fuck Ian!" Mickey cries out. He can't remember the last time he felt like this, felt this. Ian keeps eating him, delving his tongue in along with his fingers and he almost can't take it. "Ian, Ian wait," he pants, turning so he's on his back. He groans when he sees the state of Ian's face.

"Oh yeah...look so beautiful, Mickey. Jesus," Ian runs his hands all over him, taking him in. "I love you so much." He leans down and takes Mickey's dick into his mouth, bobbing up and down a few times then pulling off. Mickey is shaking and writhing when he goes back to eating him out, spreading his legs wider and wider. He reaches and strokes his dick while he fucks him with his tongue.

"Holy fucking shit! Oh fuck, mmh!" Mickey grabs onto Ian's hair, pulling it a little. He knows he likes it, and wants to let him know this is about him too. It has to be about both of them now, not one or the other like before. They're in this together. "Fuck me, please, Ian! Fuck me!"

"Yeah, I'm gonna fuck you...so good. I got you, Mickey. Love you...gonna give it to you good and hard." Ian moves up Mickey's body, wiping his mouth before kissing him sloppily anyway. He's a wreck under him and that's what he wants. He wants Mickey to feel good and know that he's not going to leave him ever again. "Never running again. You're it for me, Mickey." he says softly in his ear. "I promise."

Mickey nods, feeling like he wants to cry. His eyes well up and Ian wipes them away, kissing his face. He pulls back and brings his hand up to his mouth. He spits in it and then on Ian's dick, wishing they hadn't finished off the lube the night before. It seems so far away now that he was driving away from Ian, never to see him again. Now he just wants him inside him, where he can keep him. He sucks his hard cock, swallowing around him a few times before stroking it wet with his fist. Then he;s pulling him forward on top of him, not caring that they've already messed up the clothes under them. He can feel sand and pebbles against his back and ass, but he wraps his legs around Ian's back and guides him until he's pressed at his entrance. They share a kiss, as Ian pushes in slowly but steadily until he's in all the way.

"Oh my God, Mick," Ian sighs, falling into Mickey's neck. He's all around him now, tight and warm and holding him together like he's always done. He starts to move, pumping his hips deep so he gets his prostate right from the beginning.

"Right there, yes...yes, faster...more," Mickey whines, breathing hard. It's so good. Better than sun all year round, better than sandals and warm water, better than endless margaritas. This has always kept him going whether he was locked up or not, feeling Ian's weight in him and on him. Them.  _Us._

Ian picks up the pace, angling every thrust so it hits home to Mickey that he cares enough about him to chase him and not give up. Now he's chasing Mickey still, but he's chasing that release that Mickey needs. He can feel it coming, knows the signs by now. He bites at his neck to keep himself from going too soon. The terrain digging into his hands and knees is a good sort of pain. He wants to get him there, so he pushes harder, deeper, not letting up until they cross over into new territory with each other. Before he knows it, Mickey is clawing at his back and shouting his name over the waves. Ian follows him over, spilling inside of him until there's nothing left.

They kiss, hug each other close, smiling and giggling. Ian leads them to the water and they wade in together, holding hands. Mickey trusts him to pull them out until they're floating, but stays close. They make love again, letting the waves set the pace, then move back to the rocks. They put their clothes back on and fall asleep under the stars, this time sure where they're going.

And Ian is there in the morning, when the sun rises up out of the water. They stroll back and Damon is waiting.

They have plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who read and commented and messaged me. i'm sorry it took so long, but here it is finally finished. i'm so happy i wrote this. it was only supposed to be a one shot, but...oh well. anyway, thank you! :)

**Author's Note:**

> mhunter10 on tumblr; i love messages :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This Isn't...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10078667) by [Mrs_Monaghan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Monaghan/pseuds/Mrs_Monaghan)




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